


Hipster Horticulturist

by a_splash_of_stucky



Series: what makes a home? [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Fluff, Gardening, Gardens & Gardening, Gen, Implied Canon-Typical Violence, Indoor Gardening, Minor Injuries, POV Natasha Romanov, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, minor blood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-12
Updated: 2018-10-12
Packaged: 2019-07-29 22:14:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16273442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_splash_of_stucky/pseuds/a_splash_of_stucky
Summary: "You have plants now," she says.





	Hipster Horticulturist

**Author's Note:**

> I actually adore the Steve/Nat dynamic and it’s a crying shame that I’ve never written it myself. Written for @happystevebingo using the prompt ‘Rooftop/Indoor Farming for Novices’.
> 
> consider this round 2 of my unofficial birthday celebration thingie :D
> 
> This fic is sort-of-but-not-really set before/around the same time as ['no one left behind'](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16121585/), though they are completely unrelated, and you don't have to read that fic to understand this one.

She’s been hit.

Badly, but not badly enough to warrant a trip to a hospital or to a safehouse that has a proper surgical kit.

She hasn’t examined the wound up close, but she knows that it’s an ugly gash that marrs her left side, right on the edge of her body. 

At least nothing vital got nicked. 

The bleeding’s stopped for the most part, but it hurts like shit and she’s tired as fuck and honestly? A nap right now would be pretty fucking amazing, thank you very much.

She parks her dilapidated, sputtering truck a couple of blocks away from his warehouse, ‘cause old habits just can’t be shaken. She hasn’t dropped by a for a visit in a while, but she’s confident that he isn’t going to turn her way; it’s not in his nature. She fervently hopes that he’s back from that kerfuffle in Wyoming. If not, she’s going to have to shimmy her way in through his kitchen window, and that is not something that she’s inclined to do in her current state.

From the outside, the warehouse is as unassuming as it always it, with its peeling paint and crumbling roof. There’s a flickering light in the living room window, which is a pretty good indication that he’s home. Armed with that knowledge, she slips her key into the lock, punches in her passcode, and silently slips in through the front door.

The first thing she notices when she steps inside is the greenery hanging from the ceiling. There’s a collection of hanging plants arranged in two parallel rows, their leaves drooping over the sides of their clear pots. She feels as if she’s just stepped into a hipster cafe in downtown.

What the fuck?

There’s a low murmur of voices coming from the living room and she limps towards the source of the sound, wincing as the injury in her side makes itself more known. She finds Steve reclining on his couch, head pillowed on one arm, body turned towards the TV. He’s got some History Channel documentary on.

“Hi Nat,” he says, without turning to face her. “I was startin’ to think you’d forgotten about me.”

“You have plants now,” she says. It’s a statement, not a question, and a ridiculous statement at that — which is saying something, since she’s had to say some pretty outlandish things in her life.

“Nice, huh?” he says, as he pushes himself into a sitting position. It’s then that he properly takes in her appearance, notices the way she’s standing; a crease appears between his brows. Nonetheless, he continues with his train of thought.

“They’re air plants, get their water from the air. Great for people who forget to water their plants — or for people who have to go on extended missions.”

She blinks, still convinced that this is some sort of strange dream. “You’re one of  _those_  people now.”

Steve snorts, getting to his feet and stretching his arms over his head. The movement causes his t-shirt to ride up slightly, exposing a strip of his belly. “One of  _those_  people?” he echoes.

“A hipster!”

He laughs. “You make it sound like that’s a bad thing.”

“It is!”

“Is hipster even the right word for it?” he asks.

“You’re a hipster horticulturist,” she says accusingly. “I can’t believe you. How could you —  _betray_  me?”

Steve gives her one of those slow, amused smirks of his. “I think the blood loss is making you delusional,” he says calmly.

“You —  _ugh_ , fine. Whatever,” she mutters grumpily, too tired to argue any further.

She hops onto the back of the L-shaped couch and swings her legs over, eager to lie down on something soft. Tempting as it might be to just plop down carelessly, she chooses to carefully curl up in the corner of the couch, not wanting to aggravate her injuries any further.

“I  _was_  gonna put a towel under you,” Steve sighs, “Nevermind. The covers could use a wash anyway.”

Natasha grunts in response. Already, she can feel herself starting to drift off, the exhaustion slamming into her system at full force. The last thing she sees before sleep pulls her under are the books stacked neatly on the coffee table, featuring titles such as ‘Indoor Farming for Novices!’ and ‘Grow Your Home-Garden’.

Seriously. Who the fuck is this man and what the hell did he do to Steven Grant Rogers?

——

She wakes up to find that her shirt and jacket had been stripped off sometime during the night, and a white bandage had been wrapped around her middle. Already, her injury is not nearly as painful as it was when she came in. Somewhere off to her right, she can hear Steve pottering around like the hundred-year-old grandpa that he is, humming under his breath as he — wait, what is that trickling sound?

Is he  _watering plants_?

Natasha cracks her eyes open and sits up. Gingerly. With a lot of internal swearing and grumbling about the fucking  _Italian mafia_. Damn them.

She turns around to see Steve bent over some shelves beside the stairs.

“Mornin’!” he chirps, possibly sensing her eyes on him.

“Hi,” she croaks, voice hoarse from sleep.

“Coffee’s in the kitchen,” he tells her.

Well. That’s something.

She shuffles over to the kitchen and pours herself a large mug, groaning gratefully as the bitter, warm liquid swirls down her throat and rejuvenates her system. She cradles the mug in her hands as she pads over to Steve, eager to investigate.

As it turns out, he is indeed watering the plants. Steve’s got an impressive array of them, she discovers — succulents and tiny cacti. Some are arranged in sleek glass bowls, others in terracotta or ceramic pots. Everything’s a mish-mash of different shapes and sizes and colours, but despite the eclecticness, it all somehow manages to work together.

“Neat, huh?” Steve asks, as he straightens up. He’s wearing a black t-shirt with some faded blue jeans, and his hair’s slightly damp like he’s just come out of the shower.

“There’re a few good gardening stores around here, and at least one of ‘em has a good deal on at any time — I’ve collected these guys over the past few weeks,” he says, talking in that proud voice that one gets when they’re talking about their children.

She supposes that he’s nurtured them  _as if_ they’re his children, so it’s pretty understandable.

“This one’s my favourite,” he tells her, pointing to a stubby plant that resembles a flattened pinecone. It’s got fleshy leaves which are green towards the centre, but fade into a light red at the tips.

“I call ‘im James ‘cause he died on me, but then resurrected himself after I gave him a new home.”

Natasha blinks. There are so many things to process in that sentence.

“You give your plants  _names_?” she squawks.

“Yeah,” says Steve, like it’s an obvious fact. “Not all of ‘em, though, just the special ones.”

Oh God. He has  _favourites_ , now.

“You uh,” she pauses, choosing her words carefully. “James because of—”

“‘Cause of Bucky, yeah,” Steve says, nodding. “Maybe that’s a bit dark and all, but I think he’d get a kick out of it if he were here.”

They are silent, for a brief moment, the air suddenly tinged with a note of sadness. Their search for Barnes has yielded them nothing, and she knows that Steve’s faith is being pushed to the limits. She wants to comfort him and say that they’ll find him, but she knows that they would both see through the lie. If the Winter Soldier does not want to be found, then the Winter Soldier shall not be found.

“Anyway, let me show you the rest of the family,” Steve says, swiftly turning the subject to happier things. He lopes off to the kitchen and gestures for her to follow. “C’mon through!”

Natasha gives a quick prayer to the heavens above and hopes that Rogers has not yet lost his sanity. He may be a hundred, but she sure as heck isn’t letting him go senile.

——

The next time she visits him, it’s two months later and the Steve has taken his gardening to the next level.

At least this visit is out of want and not because of necessity; he’s invited her over for dinner.

Natasha heads into the kitchen and sees that there are small pots lined up along the kitchen window sill, behind the sink. All manner of green plants are sprouting from the black earth, their leaves turned to catch the last rays of the sinking sun.

“I decided to experiment,” Steve tells her, as he drains the pasta. “Herbs are a little harder to keep alive — but they’re a lot more useful, so I guess you win some, you lose some.”

He dumps the drained pasta into the tomato sauce, gives everything a quick stir, then turns off the heat.

“What’re your growing?” she asks, even though she can already identify every plant on the sill, given that she’s a trained field operative, and all.

“That one’s basil,” he says, gesturing to the closest plant. “And then I’ve got parsley here, some mint, chives, and — ooh, the watercress is doing nicely, I hadn’t noticed.”

Natasha watches, a small smile on her lips as Steve tells her about each plant. He’s so —  _proud_. There’s a smile tugging on the corners of his lips and a happy glint in his eyes. She can’t deny the fact that the plants are obviously doing something good for him.

He’s at peace, she realises. He’s found happiness out here, with his house filled to the brim with greenery.

“Y’know,” she says suddenly, interrupting Steve’s spiel about his chervil. “I got a…well, maybe ‘got’ is the wrong word, but I know a farm down in West Virginia — a big place. I could use someone to fix it up. Maybe…maybe you could see what it’s like to have a vegetable patch?”

Steve grins. “I’d like that.”

**Author's Note:**

> [rebloggable version](https://a-splash-of-stucky.tumblr.com/post/178976687700/hipster-horticulturist/)
> 
>  
> 
> comments and kudos make me smile :D


End file.
